


A Special Treat

by InNeedOfInspiration



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Domestic Avengers, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Pre-Five Year Mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 10:11:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18871099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InNeedOfInspiration/pseuds/InNeedOfInspiration
Summary: A glimpse into that five-year gap in Endgame. Based on Steve’s line “I’d offer to cook you dinner but you seem pretty miserable already”. Throwback to that time Steve attempted to cook Natasha dinner.





	A Special Treat

Natasha sighs, lying down in the large couch of the lounge room, as she stares at the moonlight brush across the white ceiling. It is another quiet lonely evening, following yet another quiet lonely day.

The facility resembles an abandoned warehouse since Steve moved out two weeks ago. After the painful two-year anniversary of the Snap, he couldn’t take more of this daily reminder of his powerlessness and their failure. So he left for Liberty Island.

He asked her to come with him of course, but she couldn’t. As sinister as the facility had become, she couldn’t simply leave it — and the memory of the many souls who had walked in it — behind. She knows death better than he does. She has known loss all her life — she can cope living here.

The atmosphere has become heavier since he left, though. Of course, he sends daily texts and drops by for mundane matters from time to time — but never for more than half an hour before he is caught again by the tenacious sorrow which haunts the rooms — and then he is gone again.

She cannot blame him. Things have been hard for all of them. Tony moved on with Pepper to make the most of the second chance he’d been given; Rhodey, being a soldier, couldn’t resist the call of duty…across the globe; and she stayed here to supervise everyone. Because someone had to stay to do it, and it seemed fitting for it to be here. She is the strong one, the one who can shush her grief and swallow it down.

The only hope that keeps her going is to be the first face Clint will get to see when he is finally ready to come back home.

So she works her ass off until this day.…Well, when there are things that need to be done.

When there isn’t, then she just waits here, barely existing.

She reaches for the tennis ball and throws it up in her, watches it soar into the air and fall back into her open palm. She throws it higher and higher, making sure it stops just a few inches away from the ceiling. If it hits the ceiling, then the ball will jolt away and she will lose control of it.

She can’t lose control of a stupid tennis ball.

It is the last thing she can boast of having under control.

The ball soars higher and higher, and hits the bones of her hand harder every time it falls back down. Her palm is growing sore but it does not matter. Feeling this insignificant pain makes her alive, feeling so lonely is fine; it makes her luckier than half of the Universe.

She swallows hard as her eyes begin to fill up with water. She’s lost count of the night she cried herself to sleep.

It amazes her she still has a stock of tears after the countless she has shed. Who would have thought a Russian assassin could cry so much? She didn’t, until the past two years. Until the past two weeks.

God, she wants to scream but she’s never been taught to express her anger. Not with her voice at least.

The tennis ball almost grazes the ceiling and begins its descent. A thick arm suddenly appears in her line of sight and the hand strongly catches the ball above her head.

“Am I interrupting?” his familiar voice echoes across the silent room.

Natasha looks higher up. Steve bends over and puts his hands down his pockets.

She presses her fingers over her eyes to brush the tears away. But he saw them already — he is just too courteous to make any comment on it.

“Well,” she says, sniffing softly. “Well, after this, I was going to go read a book. So yeah please call and book an appointment next time.”

She jumps out of the couch.

“Steinbeck?” he asks. He knows she liked his books.

She smirks. “Orwell,” she answers.

He nods. “Sounds quite fitting,” he answers.

She walks over to the TV to switch it off. She keeps it mute most of the time, but the sight of fleeting images soothes her, maintains some bleak illusion of normalcy.

“What are you doing here so late?” she asks.

“I had some business to do in town and thought I would make a stop.”

“Missing the warm coziness of hearth?” she jokes humorlessly.

His shoulders move slightly. “Missing the company of an old friend.”

They both pause as she looks at him. His hands are still deep in his pocket. He is wearing dark blue jeans with a casual long-sleeved black shirt and a camel leather jacket. He looks okay, putting aside the visible dark circles under his eyes. She suspects hers look just the same.

The corner of her mouth goes up a little and she snorts. Well, he should have thought about that before moving out.

She won’t tell him, though. She knows he already blames himself for leaving her behind.

“Your old friend is fine,” she says as she goes to slap the cushions into shape to tidy up the couch. “We’ve been tracking some small terrorist group in South Africa. Rhodey is taking care of it.”

“Good,” he comments coolly. “But that’s not what I came here for.”

Right, he retired. It became unbearable for him to pretend what they were doing still meant something. Not after losing to Thanos, the one mission they could not afford to fail.

Natasha feebly leans over to readjust the cushions, and she feels his hand softly hold her arm.

“You’ve been eating well?” he asks with a concerned look. She glances above his shoulder and sees her reflection in the mirror on the back wall. She looks pale.

“I’ve been busy,” she lies. After he left, she realized there was no point in cooking for just a person. Her diet has consisted of snacks at random times of the day, if at all.

“You’ve had dinner yet?” he asks.

She turns to look at him. Her stoic expression stands as an answer. Steve frowns.

He takes off his leather jacket and drops it on the edge of the couch.

“I’m cooking you dinner,” he says decisively.

“I’m not really angry,” she begins.

“Nat. That is not open for discussion.”

He heads over to the kitchen and she follows him reluctantly. Steve walks around the island and opens the bottoms shelves. She goes to sit on one of the high stools by the island, right across from him.

She watches him take a cooking pot out and pick up utensils.

She puts her elbow on the marble surface and props her chin against her knuckles. The sight of him diligently gathering all the ingredients is amusing — and yeah, perhaps a little sexy.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” she says.

He rolls up his sleeves and turns on the faucet to wash his hands.

“Well, I used to be a single man living in an apartment in D.C. when I worked for SHIELD,” he turns around and smiles. “I had to feed.”

She bends forward on the island and reaches across.

“Aren’t you going to wear this?” she teases with a smirk, showing him the bright red apron hanging in her hand.

“I’ll pass,” he answers.

He starts peeling carrots and slicing them up.

She grabs the glass of wine he poured her a few minutes before. She sips the red wine, feeling the warm trail the liquid leaves onto her tongue and down her throat.

“Do you need a hand?” she asks.

Steve looks sternly focused on his slicing. She finds it amusing. It reminds her of all those evenings watching MasterChef because it was the only channel working in the lousy motel they stayed in for a week during their first year in the run.

“No. No. I got this,” he answers confidently.

She can see he is trying hard to give her a treat. It is quite cute to watch.

“So, peanuts are the only thing I should avoid, right?” he muses aloud.

“Uh?” she lowers her glass of wine.

Steve takes his eyes off the cutting board. “You know, your allergy to peanuts.”

She leans on both elbows.

“Oh, I only meant allergic figuratively. I don’t like peanuts in any shape or form. The day you see me eat peanut butter will mean I am in the gutter.”

“Noted.” He answers then carries on to slice up the tomatoes.

Forty minutes later, the preparation has been heating up in the oven for half of that time. Steve is washing up the dishes with a towel on his shoulder.

Funnily, she has never seen him so domestic. They’ve eaten a thousand times before but most of the time, it was swallowing down a sandwich over a map or while discussing work. Then after killing Thanos, eating just became a formality; he’d often walk into the kitchen right when she had finished, or vice versa.

It’s funny they would have to have waited for him to have moved out for them to have their first proper meal in eight years. Steve knows she likes though: she noticed he had made sure to only include ingredients she liked. He had even added spices because she liked her food spicy — he didn’t.

Steve is now leaning on the other edge of the island, pouring himself a glass of wine.

The room has grown pleasantly warm because of the oven, and it feels homey.

“No, you didn’t,” she exclaims with half a smile.

Steve smirks. “It’s the truth. A few seconds earlier and he would have walked in on me coming out of the shower.”

They hadn’t talked about Sam in a while. But it somewhat feels right to bring him up tonight. Talking about some of the boisterous moments of their past runaway life sounds anecdotic in the current context.

“And you were naked?” she asks.

“That’s how I tend to take my showers, yeah.”

She tilts her head and rolls her eyes. She doesn’t notice but he is staring intently at her — he finds it cute when she does that thing with her head.

“And he was naked, too?”

“Almost. I shouted just when his pants were coming off.”

“So you saw….little Sam?” she asks. Her face lights up excitedly — perhaps it’s the wine.

Steve nods with a pout.

She puts his hand on his bare forearm. “Why did you never tell me before?” He glances down at it.

“Sam swore me to secrecy.”

She raises her thumb to her mouth and bites it. “Aren’t you a gentleman?”

He rolls his eyes and looks away. Is he blushing? He blames it on the wine.

A strange smell slowly rises into the kitchen. Both their heads spin towards the oven: a dark smoke is slipping through the crack.

“Oh, no,” Steve calls. He puts his glass down and rushes to open the oven. It frees a black cloud of smoke.

He can’t remember where he put the glove but he has to save Natasha’s dinner. He kneels down and reaches for the mold.

“Damn it,” he shouts as he puts it down on the marble surface then jerks his hand away.

Natasha rushes up to him.

“Did you burn yourself?” she asks.

“I’m ok, I’m ok.”

She looks at his hand and sees the swollen redness on his palm. She holds it gently, turns on the faucet and puts his hand under the running water.

“Looks like you earned yourself a brand new band-aid, Steve.”

He sighs heavily as he realizes he has just ruined everything.

A couple of minutes later, he is sitting on the stool next to her, his forearm is lying down on the kitchen island, while she is gently rubbing cream on his burn. She begins to wrap a bandage around his hand.

He can barely hide his frustration. She is chuckling.

“I feel ridiculous,” he eventually voices out loud.

“Oh please, you’re certainly not the first man to burn himself while cooking,” she comments soothingly although with an apparent smile, meticulously wrapping up his hand.

“You were not supposed to look after me, tonight. It was my turn…for once,” he says softly. “I wanted to cheer you up.”

“Well, you did. I hadn’t laughed in a while,” she confesses.

He smiles. “Well, at least I did this right.”

Next, he brings their two plates. Her belly is kind of growling in anticipation. The sight of a hot, ok-looking meal, arouses her long-lost appetite.

He watches expectantly as she takes the fork and pricks a piece. She slightly wets her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue before opening her mouth.

It tastes…terrible. Steve’s eyes are fixed on her.

“It’s…interesting,” she says considerately.

He grabs his fork and tries the food too.

“It’s disgusting and I apologize,” he chimes in far more realistically.

“It’s not,” she assures. “I’ve had worse.”

She covers her mouth with the back of her hand and looks at him with wide eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it this way.”

She bursts into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. He rolls his eyes then her gaiety affects him, too. He starts laughing as well. Their hearty laughter rings out in the facility, a sound those rooms have not heard in a while.

Or maybe it is nervous. Maybe it is the sound of despair when it has hit rock bottom without any way up. Maybe they’re laughing because it has been a while since they allowed themselves to. Or maybe it’s the wine.

“I thought you were cooking in your apartment in DC.”

“Well, I mostly ordered pizza or Chinese.”

He promises himself he’ll never cook her anything again. That is for her own good.

They both put the fork down and talk till the meal turns cold. They could feed it to the birds but they’re not sure birds deserve such a punishment.

“How’s your hand?” she asks. He looks at his bandaged hand and closes his fist a little.

She brushes her fingertips over the immaculate fabric.

“Thank you for coming tonight,” she says. “I could use the company of an old friend.”

He looks intently into her eyes. Those eyes he has found a liking into staring into the past years.

She knows that. He’s told her how he felt before but she answered she couldn’t. She could not commit to whatever he wanted to start between them.

Perhaps it’s why he left. He needed to start over but she turned down his offer.

She moves to the edge of her stool to get closer to him. It feels good.

Her face is getting dangerously close to his.

“What do you want Steve?” she asks.

“You know what I want,” he answers.

She nods softly. “I once asked you who you wanted me to be and you said you wanted a friend.”

He closes his eyes. He remembers that conversation. A conversation that he cherishes but has grown to abhor over the years.

“I know. But I want more, now.”

Her lips, reddened with the wine, brush against his like a soft caress.

“I can’t give you more than that,” she answers. It would be wrong to start over when so many others lost that chance two years ago.

“It’s not enough,” he answers. “I want all of you.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“You mean my body?” she challenges him with a cocky smirk.

But he is looking at her deeply. “Body and soul.”

Her body slightly jerks away in reaction. “I lost my soul lives ago,” she says. “There is nothing left from it.”

He lifts his bandaged hand up to her face. “I bed to disagree. I see it every time I look into your eyes.”

She shakes her up slightly. “That remains to be proven.”

“Nat, I respect your decision.”

“But you won’t take me to bed tonight and pretend nothing happened tomorrow.”

“No,” he says chastely. “But I want to keep kissing you.”

She looks up at him.

“And tomorrow will be back to normal.”

He purses his lips together. It is not what he wants but it still something he is willing to take. He is ready to pay that price if it means spending a special moment with her tonight — as small a compensation as it is.

He nods, taking her deal. He’ll just have to disappear for a few weeks, to mourn this ‘almost’.

Nat leans in again and he kisses her on tenderly, taking the treat she is giving him.


End file.
